A Court Affair (19 page)

“Yes, My Lord.” The valet heaved a sigh and followed him like a man on his way to the gallows. “And for your bath, will you be wantin’ the asses’ milk or the crushed strawberries mixed with rosewater?”

“The asses’ milk, you ass!”
Guildford screamed as he slammed the door.

“You must excuse Guildford,” Lady Dudley said as she descended the stairs again, “he’s just nervous. He’s always been rather delicate, and he is such a sensitive boy, and he’s never been a bridegroom before. My little golden bird is nervous about flying the nest!”

“Is … Is … h-he … Is he
always
like that?” I stammered.

“Whatever do you mean?” I was startled to hear my husband’s voice and spun round, stumbling over my own feet and nearly falling, to discover him and his father standing behind me. Apparently they had come in whilst I was watching the scene above. “When servants do not perform their duties properly, one must reprimand them. Surely you know that, Amy?”

“My dear daughter-in-law,” the Earl of Warwick, now styled the Duke of Northumberland, began in a tone that made it quite clear that I was not at all dear to him, “are you aware that there are
stains
on your dress? And is that …
sugar
on your shoulders? Robert, you should instruct your wife that this is London, not the country, and she must make every effort not to appear slovenly and unkempt; people notice such things, and they do not forget. Dudleys do not marry slatterns. And Dudley women either born or joined to us by marriage do not appear in public with stains upon their clothes.”

I glanced down at my rat grey velvet travelling dress and saw to my dismay that the brown syrup used to coat the sweet figs had left dribbling stains all down my bodice and skirt like a series of smeared blots and smaller dots.

“I … I’m s-sorry,” I stammered with tears welling in my eyes. “Y-your s-son … G-G-Guildford … the f-figs … h-he …” I endeavoured to explain, blushing hotly as I felt Robert’s hand fastidiously brushing the sugar crystals from my shoulders and disdainfully plucking a stray fig from the nest of white and grey plumes atop my hat.

“How very thoughtful of Guildford!” the Duke exclaimed, smiling at the thought of his youngest son as he led the way into the parlour. “But, my dear”—he turned anxiously to his wife—“you
must
instruct Guildford to let the servants serve refreshments to our guests. I know he wants to be a gracious host, but that is what they are here for.”

“Yes, dear.” Lady Dudley, always a dutiful wife, obediently nodded. “But you
know
how Guildford is …”

“Yes.” The Duke nodded. “He is such a kind, thoughtful, generous boy …”

Seeing my astonishment—I couldn’t believe my ears—Lady Dudley hastened to explain, “Of course we love all our children, but … Guildford is the youngest, and we all dote upon him so!”

At that moment, Guildford, still in his gold dressing gown and curling rags, apparently having put off his bath and slathering his face with fig milk for the moment, strode in as grand as an emperor with his much-harassed manservant trailing after him like a royal trainbearer.

“Father, is the King dead yet? I need a new valet! What are you standing there for?” He turned suddenly to his servant, stamping on the poor fellow’s toes again. “I’m hungry; fetch me some figs!
Now!
”

“Yes, My Lord,” the weary servant sighed, and moments later, as Guildford was busy petitioning his father to have the King’s valet for his own if the King died, the man returned with a gold platter heaped high with green figs.

“Are you trying to make me ill? Are you trying to kill me? Don’t bother to deny it—I
know
you are!” Guildford rounded furiously on the poor fellow. “I can’t eat these! They’re
green
! I want candied figs, and I want them
now
!” And with that he struck the golden platter from below and, once again, figs went flying everywhere.

Before I knew what I was doing, the words were flying out of my mouth. “Are you all blind and deaf or just insane? Guildford is the most hateful, rude, spoiled, obnoxious, and ungrateful boy I have
ever
seen in my life! I would not talk to a dog the way he does to his manservant! If he were my son, I would wallop him with a broomstick and send him to sleep in the cellar and dine on naught but table scraps until he learned to keep a civil tongue and behave like a gentleman!”

Lady Dudley gave a cry and wilted against her husband in a half swoon while Mary, Robert, and their father all stared at me as if I had suddenly turned green, and, had Guildford’s eyes been daggers, they would most assuredly have cut me into mincemeat.

It was the much-put-upon valet who broke the silence. “Amen to that, even if I’m horsewhipped for sayin’ so! God save you, ma’am”—he bowed to me—“that is the most honest and sensible thing I’ve heard anyone in this house say the whole week I’ve been here. No need to throw me out, My Lady”—he bowed to Lady Dudley—“I know where the door is.” And, so saying, he turned his back on us all and walked out, whereupon Guildford shattered the stunned silence by bursting into tears.

“You
can’t
leave me! You
can’t
! What will I do without a valet? How will I live? If I don’t have a valet, I
know
I shall die! These curl rags are too tight; they make my head ache, and I can’t take them out myself!” And with that declaration he flung himself weeping onto the fireside settle and buried his face in the crimson velvet cushions, weeping as though he had just lost the love of his life. I was appalled. I had never seen a boy of any age carry on so, and this one, at seventeen, was accounted a man.

“Now, darling, don’t cry!” Lady Dudley pleaded as she rushed to embrace him. “Mother and sister Mary will take the hateful curl rags out to ease poor Guildford’s head, and we shall get you a new valet …”

“I want the King’s valet!” Guildford screamed.

“Now, son”—the Duke hurried to his side, to comfortingly pat his back—“the King is
very
ill right now and needs his valet, but …”

“
I don’t care!
I shall be ill myself if I don’t get the King’s valet, and then I shall die, and it will be as though the sun has gone out of all your lives, and then you will be sorry you were all so mean to me! No one loves me! She”—he stabbed an accusing finger at me, causing everyone to turn and stare at me—“thinks I should be walloped with a broomstick!”

“Now see what you have done!” Lady Dudley rounded on me with fury blazing in her eyes like fire from a dragon’s mouth. “You have upset Guildford!” The way she pronounced those words, one would have thought I had committed bloody murder right there in the parlour.

“Robert,” the Duke said with a severe frown, “your wife is nothing but a troublemaker. Walloping Guildford with a broomstick indeed! Such may be the ignorant and ill-bred way things are done in the country, but not in London, and not by civilised, highborn people like us! And Guildford is such a delicate, sensitive boy …”

“Robert, don’t just stand there,” Lady Dudley said urgently as she bent over the prone and sobbing form of her youngest and dearest child, stroking his back. “Take your fastest horse and fetch Dr Carstairs. And, for God’s sake—
hurry
! And get an apothecary too! The poor dear will make himself ill if he goes on like this! Oh, Guildford, Guildford, my dearest, darling boy,
please
don’t cry! No one wants you to be walloped with a broomstick, and no one ever shall do such a horrid thing as long as either I, or your father, or any of your brothers, has a breath left in their body! We all love you and would lay down our lives rather than see a hair on your head harmed!”

As Robert strode past me, hastening for the stables, he flashed me an angry glare. “You’ve not even been here an hour, and you’ve already made my brother ill and offended my parents!”

As he left, his elder brother Ambrose walked in, drawn no doubt by Guildford’s sobbing. “What ails Guildford now?” he asked as though such scenes were very much commonplace. “Did he lose another valet?”

“Ambrose, thank God you are here! Guildford is
very
upset—yes, his valet has left him—
again!
—and that
dreadful,
lowbred girl from the country Robert so foolishly married thinks Guildford should be walloped with a broomstick and made to sleep in a cellar and dine—if you can call it dining—off table scraps!
Table scraps!
Oh, my
darling
boy!” She clutched Guildford protectively against her bosom. “Mary”—she turned suddenly to her daughter—“there is your lute on the window seat. Sing that song about the old maid; you know how it always amuses Guildford. And, Ambrose, do some cartwheels or flips or something—you know how Guildford
adores
acrobats and tumblers.”

“But, Mother …” Ambrose began to protest, gesturing down at his rich court clothes, which anyone could see were ill-suited for that sort of thing, but he was sharply rebuked by his father, who shouted at him to do as his mother said.

And so Mary took up her lute and began to sing, over and over again, the maddeningly repetitious tune:

And as she sang, Ambrose reluctantly did cartwheels and flips back and forth across the room in his sky blue and silver, diamond, pearl, and satin-beribboned court attire, while Guildford’s mother and father bent over him, Lady Dudley endeavouring to calm him with soothing words, kisses, and caresses, and the Duke with more restrained pats upon his back. Both urged him to sit up and watch Ambrose’s antics and sing along, and, to encourage him, they loudly joined in the song.

I just couldn’t bear it a moment longer and, in tears, with my head hung low, crept out and, not knowing where to go, sank down on the bottom step and wept as I waited for my husband to come home while Guildford continued to sob and scream lamentations that put all our eardrums in peril and would have put a banshee to shame, and his parents and sister sang out with great gusto:

Poor Jane Grey!
I thought. Though I had yet to clap eyes on her, I pitied her already; I would not wish such a bridegroom as Guildford upon my worst enemy. Unless she died young or was endowed with a remarkably placid manner that cast a calming spell over Guildford, she was likely to spend the rest of her life singing silly songs and turning cartwheels in the parlour to soothe her husband’s tears and savage temper. If she were blessed with understanding parents, she would do far better to heed the words of the song and chase Guildford away, even if it meant living an old maid till she died. I wouldn’t be in that young lady’s shoes for a kingdom, I told myself as in the parlour Guildford keened like a banshee and his parents and sister boisterously burst forth with yet another chorus of “I’ll Live an Old Maid Till I Die!”

That night in bed I awaited Robert, naked and inviting, with my golden hair spilling across the pillows and my body laid bare and ready for his embrace. But when he came, he merely nudged my hip to push me over onto the other side of the bed. He spoke not a word—
not one single word!
—and turned a cold back to me. I knew by his silence that I had greatly displeased him. Even when I reached out a hand to stroke that hard, unyielding back, expecting to find it as cold as a wall of ice, he jerked away from me, and when I dared to try again, to stroke lightly that stiff spine, he turned and dealt my hand a fierce slap. I turned away then, buried my face in my pillow to stifle my sobs, lest the sound of them disturb Robert, and cried myself to sleep.

I knew then, no matter what I did, no matter what I said, it would never be good enough, and I would always be found wanting. Even if I memorised every etiquette book from start to finish and comported myself as gracefully as a queen, correct and perfect in every way, still the Dudley family, and amongst them the one I loved best, would find some fault with me. I would
never
be good enough for them.

Even when, in my sleep, I turned to him, wanting to drape my body around his, to curve round him as if we were two spoons stored in a drawer, Robert woke me by shoving me away so hard, my brow banged the edge of the table beside the bed, causing me to wake with a startled and pained cry and send the heavy silver candlestick clattering onto the floor, so Robert had to scold me for making enough noise to rouse the whole house and the dead as well. And when I appeared at the table to break my fast the next morning with my eyes red, swollen, and bleary and a red gouge upon my forehead and a bruise upon my hand, I had to listen to the Dudley family talk around me, as if I were not even there, about how country women let themselves go and did not care about appearances the way highborn ladies did. Though they said they pitied such creatures, they spoke with scorn and used the words
stupid
and
slatternly,
ignorant
and
unkempt
so many times that I lost count. I wanted to bolt from my chair and run all the way back to Norfolk and not stop running until I was safe inside Stanfield Hall again, but when I leapt up, upsetting the marmalade in my flustered haste, and started for the door, Robert’s hand shot out to grasp my wrist, twisting it painfully. As he forced me back into my chair, he hissed into my ear: “Sit down, Amy, you’re making a spectacle of yourself!” And then there was more talk of uncouth manners and a lack of decorum as a maid came in to clean up the marmalade, and my tears dripped into my cup to further water down my breakfast ale, and I gently clasped my throbbing wrist.

“Your wife wants discipline, Robert,” said the Duke of Northumberland.